Writing Stories.

It was unthinkable because my mom was both an artist and a narcissistic alcoholic and my dad was a big sports man. Not a mixture conducive to the arts. It didn't help I thought artists rotated between self-absorbed, or truly anointed. I felt like I didn't have permission to be creative. What in my work they would call "fear of failure". There was one seed though that made it through. My dad was a natural storyteller. He knew how to inflect his voice. He loved to use his hands. His stories weren't complete if he wasn't laughing with his own story. It had an energy that radiated I want you to experience this as I did.

I can count the number of times I was asked to make-up a story from scratch from the ages of 15 to 21 on one hand and each of them were the most proud I've ever been. I was a mediocre athlete and that was where all the time was spent. From the age of 6 to 24 I can count roughly the same number of moments.

I had to put on a play for confirmation, and I loved it. I had to write a short-story in HS, wrote about my summers as a greenskeeper and working with men that were anywhere between 5 to 50 years older than me, and it was the highest (or second-highest) grade in the class. I cowardly decided to go to business school (I liked economics, still do, but what I could do with it? Not so much.) I had an excellent writing teacher my freshman year of high-school. Every paper I turned it was like a sculpture. I chiseled away at anything that didn't flow or sound the way I wanted to. Sometimes I'll find old papers and look them over like a painting. The red margin comments like critics reviews.

I had to do a monologue for a communications class in university. I was one of three students that read the syllabus and dressed up. The professor singled me out for praise, so when I had to do the monologue I wanted to nail it. Like all children of alcoholics, I was desperate to please people that praised me, though I suspected she deserved it. I went with the opening monologue from Gone, Baby Gone. It is read entirely off-screen, and true to my dad's gesticulating roots, I choreographed my hand and body gestures (For the final line I pointed a finger to my temple for "Be wise as serpents"/and my arms out, slightly limp and palms lightly, slightly up for "yet innocent, and then arms out but wide now for "as doves"). I got on stage, and was stage left. We were all told to use cards. I remember them in my hands, my mouth open about to begin and I think "No...". I put them in my pocket, and within a few lines, my professor's jaw drops. I will never forget that face, way in the back, while I was still on stage. Would seem I have a habit of disappointing people, because I stumbled on to rugby, and my efforts in that class were woeful. Like seeing an old friend turn to drugs. The professor masked her disappointment, but I was referred to then on as the hooligan. I accomplished a few things I'm proud of with rugby, but it just wasn't worth what made me so happy.

A couple of years after graduating I was working a very stressful job. My brother was attacked at a party, and I was a little nervous because he was at the Boston Bombings the year before and had a history of finding himself in bad situations. My mom could be almost more unbearable sober. Just a constant burden of worry and fury. I worked with kids and had to bottle the frustration of a sociopathic coworker that was constantly out to sabotage me. She confronted me at work and suddenly I was stammering and breathing heavily. Sometimes when I'm angry I literally feel like I'm falling apart. I had to leave the office. I realized I couldn't breathe. I was having a panic attack.

After the therapy, I still hid it from friends I didn't realize I was so close to. I told some about my condition, and soon afterwards how I loved movies and wanted to write short stories. It is the wrong lesson to give, but you could say I found my permission. Sometimes I was too embarrassed to say what I was thinking or feeling, and I turned back to writing. Just recounting how the days went. I needed to process my thoughts and not let it be a ramble and slowly a throughline evolved. I had found my stories again.

I recently discovered the moth, and while I still gaining the confidence to try and write actual stories. I've written nonfiction that I want to tell the Moth's StorySlam, which basically is an open-mic but in front of (usually?) a big crowd.

I'm telling this because I suspect OP is just a teenager themself. I'm not telling you to go out and be a storyteller, to make it your career. What I am telling you is you do not need someone's permission to at least spend time on something that is inspiring, esteem-building, and sometimes was my only reprieve. Foolishly, I thought otherwise.